


The Normalisation Condition

by Jothowrote



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Conditioning, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jothowrote/pseuds/Jothowrote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are more ways to possess a man than feasting on his flesh. And Dr Hannibal Lecter plays the long game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Normalisation Condition

**Author's Note:**

> A foray into Hannibal fanfiction that has been effectively nullified by the most recent episodes, but I still thought it worth posting just for feedback. I know nothing about the books and have therefore based all my characterisation on my own beliefs from watching the programme; therefore, if I am horribly wrong, I apologise.

Will feels worn and weathered, frayed to an end. Sliding into the perspective of a murderer has never been an easy solution; he always retreats with grime still sticking to him, staining his mind and darkening his vision. Sometimes he feels like a small rock, warn smooth from a thick, roiling ocean, and that there is no choice but to hold his ground and ignore the rushing water eroding him. 

He can do what he likes; he knows that whatever happens the water will keep on roaring until he is whittled down to nothing, a spec of what used to be someone called William Graham, floating in a mire of twisted pleasure.

People disgust him, mainly, and so he keeps his distance. His dogs are so much easier to be with. They want for nothing except his company and regular meals, and he often wonders how their hearts can cope with giving so much love to a twisted husk of a man who can give so little back.

His own company is less than desirable also. The endless imaginings swirl around his brain like a fever, setting his skin on fire and making his heart pound. He wakes up four or five times a night, usually, tangled in blankets soaked in his own sweat that have grown cold and clammy in the draught from the open window.

Every day he turns up to work with darker rings around his eyes, and he knows it is only a matter of time before someone takes notice.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hannibal Lecter is an oasis of calm in a rushing world, in his perfectly pressed suits and delicate accent. Every word that falls from his mouth is weighted and meaningful, and at first Will doesn’t like what he hears. He has a feeling that Lecter is purposefully goading him into reacting, but he really couldn’t care less. All he wants is to get away from the man who immediately calls out his aversion to eye contact.

Halfway through his muttered retort Will makes the mistake of looking up and catching the Doctor’s eyes; for a moment he is frozen, his body locked up like a rabbit in headlights. A second passes and the strange compulsion leaves, and so does Will, and he leaves as quickly as though the devil were snapping at his heels.

He might as well have been.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Hannibal brings him breakfast and lets him pass his Psych Eval, and Will wonders if he has an ally or an enemy in the man. 

To be honest, both prospects scare him a little.

He turns up to a session after a slow, dragging lecture and is greeted with an expertly cooked meal. Lecter, already sitting behind a carefully crafted plate of his own, gestures for Will to sit.

‘You are looking tired, William,’ he comments as Will sits and tentatively picks up his cutlery.

‘I’m not sleeping well,’ he mutters, before putting a loaded fork in his mouth. The meat is tender and juicy, flavoursome and rich, and Will enjoys it so much he almost doesn’t notice the small drop of sauce sliding down his chin. He catches it with a napkin and it stains the white linen red, like blood.

‘I doubt that many men who have witnessed what you have would sleep well,’ Lecter comments, spearing a baby carrot with his fork. 

‘I suppose,’ Will says, half-heartedly. They fall silent as though by agreement, and Lecter speaks again only after clearing away the plates.

‘What is it that stops you from sleeping?’

‘When I relax, I… remember doing things I haven’t done,’ Will says, the words tangling themselves up in his mouth. It hardly makes sense but for some reason he feels like he needs to explain it to Lecter. ‘I remember the crimes, only I’m the one committing them.’

‘Do you simply watch? Or do you feel?’

‘I feel… I feel how I imagine the murderer feels,’ Will whispers, the truth too terrible to say out loud. ‘In my sleep I kill people, I torture them… and I enjoy it.’

‘Power is a heady emotion,’ Lecter says, and Will wonders abstractly if the man speaks from experience.

‘I don’t want it,’ Will says sullenly, like a grumpy child. 

The truth is, the lines between him and the murderers have blurred beyond all recognition. He now no longer knows whether he feels what the killer felt, or if he feels what William Graham would feel, deep in his heart of hearts, as he maims and slices and stabs.

A vision of Hobbs jerking with the momentum of ten bullets, twitching like a puppet on tugged strings, flashes before his eyes, and Will blinks it hastily away.

Hannibal is still watching him, his face impassive.

‘I would very much like to keep you under observation for a night or two,’ Lecter says, the words out of the blue and startling. Will swallows, somewhat unwilling to share his night terrors with anyone, let alone someone who is more than perfectly capable of analysing them and discovering a truth Will wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

‘Overnight?’ he asks redundantly. Lecter nods, his face betraying nothing.

‘You intrigue me, William. In my years as a psychiatrist, I have never come across anyone with the specific symptoms as you. Forgive me for perhaps being too forward, but I am anxious to discover more about your mind.’

Will doubts that Hannibal Lecter has ever felt anxious in his life, but for some unknown reason he trusts the man, and he nods slowly.

A small smile splits Lecter’s thin lips and Will meets his eyes for a second before dropping his own to the papers on the desk.

‘Good.'

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Hannibal has perhaps not been entirely truthful with William, but he sees it as a negligible sin in the grand scheme of things. He had been completely sincere about the most important point, of course; William Graham intrigued Hannibal almost to the point of indecency.

The man himself is physically unassuming; he is good-looking, of course, but hides it beneath a veneer of deranged madman. His hair is wild and he hides his eyes from anyone who looks him in the face.

These points are merely superficial; Hannibal is drawn to the mind beneath. It is razor sharp but twisted, like barbed wire in a deadly tangle that glitters beneath a harsh light. Hidden beneath the metal is a flat expanse of water, reflecting other minds with perfect precision. 

Perhaps sometimes the mirror images are caught on the wire, reflected back onto the waters of Will’s mind and scattered like light from a prism. Perhaps this is why William cannot sleep at night, as the light of other minds ricochets around his own.

Sometimes, on the rare occasion that Will meets his stare, Hannibal fancies he can see his own mind mirrored in Will’s eyes.

Like that, Will is beautiful.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Hannibal resents the common misconception that cannibals are a danger to anyone. He likes to think of himself as selective, just as others are with cows, or sheep. Not every animal will become meat, despite all of them having the capability for it. Some have other purposes, such as wool, or milk, or the continued creation of more sheep and cows.

It is much the same with humans.

Hannibal takes only those which he believes have little else to contribute. If a person is dull, stupid, miscellaneous, it could almost be considered a kindness to create art from their meat, to transform them into a delicious meal which will strengthen those who need nourishment.

Hannibal, for one. Will, for the other. Jack Crawford, partly because Hannibal enjoys watching the man eat human flesh in ignorance and partly because he deserves good food after the tireless work he does saving important lives.

Will is a special case.

It would be a horrific waste if someone were to kill William Graham. Some are simply destined to become steak; others are for a greater purpose. While Hannibal is sure Will would make a delectable meal, there were other, non-permanent ways to keep him close. Besides, he doubted that the beautiful mind would come across as a flavour, even with the best of sauces.

Instead, Hannibal insinuates himself into Will’s life, becoming an irreplaceable prop that the man uses more and more often to prevent himself falling to the ground. Soon, he will be built into William’s foundations and therefore impossible to be removed without pulling Will down around him too.

Still, his philosophy is ‘softly, softly’, and so for a moment Hannibal believes he’s advanced too much, too soon when he asks if he can observe Will overnight. But the horse didn’t bolt, and Will acquiesced. Hannibal smiles in smug satisfaction, but does not let any leak onto his face.

Will arrives for the night with small bag and a nervous twitch that Hannibal pretends not to notice, hoping to put him more at ease. 

‘Would you like to leave your bag in your room before we eat?’ he asks, beckoning Will through the door. Will’s eyes slide to meet his and slide away just as quickly, but he nods.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he says stiffly.

Hannibal had prepared the room earlier, because it is an art to create a room which is simultaneously comforting and alien all at once, a home from home and yet a one night stand. He is happy with the result – the room was already large but not overly so, and decorated with a neutral palette of soft greys and greens. It has a small ensuite and a desk in the corner, unaggressive artwork and large windows.

Will drops his bag on the bed’s crisp sheets and stands, marooned, in the centre of the room, glancing around as though in a trap.

‘Where have you put the camera?’ he asks, flicking his eyes around the room. Hannibal smiles.

‘Where would you put it?’ he replies.

‘Probably… in the chair. Over there,’ Will points.

‘That does give a good view of the room,’ Hannibal agrees. The corner of Will’s mouth lifts slightly.

‘You’re not going to tell me?’

‘I would rather you acted as natural as possible. There is, of course, no camera in the bathroom.’

‘I would thank you for that but I would hope for that to be the case anyway.’

A timer goes off from downstairs, and Hannibal excuses himself to remove their dinner from the oven before it overcooks and loses that delicious, tender taste.

He neglects to tell Will that there is no camera.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

That night, when they are both replete with Hannibal’s cooking, he invites Will to play chess. It turns out Will is surprisingly bad at chess, at the strategy – he rushes forward unthinkingly, and then exacerbates the danger by backtracking, hastily trying to retreat. Hannibal beats him three times before the strong, fine wine starts to make Will’s eyelids droop.

‘Perhaps we should stop for the night,’ Hannibal says, as Will supresses a yawn. Will, who had been slumped comfortably on his chair, sits up a little and tenses. Hannibal turns away to place the chessboard and pieces back on the shelf where they belonged – he takes his time to rearrange the pieces back to their starting positions, placing each delicately carved figurine with the utmost care. When he turns back to his patient, Will has his anxiousness under control once more.

They part ways on the landing, Hannibal with a soft good evening and Will with a twitch of his head and a mumbled word. 

Hannibal wonders how Will’s night will start. A quick search for the non-existent camera, perhaps, or maybe he’ll go straight to sleep and hope that nothing happens for Hannibal to psychoanalyse. Hannibal, of course, hopes for the exact opposite.

About an hour after parting, Hannibal puts aside his book, pulls on his robe over his pyjamas, and walks the few steps across the hall to where the guest room door is closed but not locked. 

Hannibal made sure it had no lock before William arrived.

William is – surprisingly – already asleep, although it is obvious his dreams are not pleasant. He tosses and turns, twisting himself tightly in the sheets. The top cover has long since slid off the bed, and lies instead in a sad, crumpled heap by the side. Hannibal picks it up and folds it over the back of the nearby armchair before sitting down and observing Will.

Will’s eyes flicker ceaselessly behind his eyelids, as though there are sights he’s desperate not to see and yet cannot stop looking at them anyway. Hannibal wonders just what is tattooed on the inside of Will’s eyes, and wishes not for the first time that it were possible to witness another’s dreams.

Will’s restlessness is unrelenting – Hannibal can see why he is always so drained in the day, if he spends his nights fighting off the visions his brain cannot help but repeat on a loop. Hannibal watches and thinks, waiting for Will to sense his presence and wake, or perhaps waiting for him to sleepwalk again. He does neither for the beginning of the night, and simply writhes in a desperate attempt to escape his nightmares, sweating and occasionally crying out into the darkness. 

Only at past one in the morning does Hannibal’s patience get rewarded; Will falls still, for a moment, and then begins to climb to his feet. Hannibal stays seated and watches as Will walks slowly and surely to the door, even turning the handle and letting himself out of the room. It is only then that Hannibal rises and follows him.

Will walks down the stairs with an unerring sense of direction. Hannibal follows him like a shadow. It is only when he makes it out of the front door and onto the pavement does Hannibal act, deciding that things had gone far enough. Will’s profile is soft in the dim light of the streetlamp, and the chill wind makes the small hairs on his bare arms stand upright.

‘Will,’ he says softly, reaching out and taking his cold, sweaty wrist. ‘Will, come back inside.’ He tugs at Will’s wrist with gentle insistence, and Will turns like a zombie. They make it all the way back to the guest room without Will truly waking, with Hannibal whispering all the way, soothing and relaxing.

‘Come back, Will, where it’s safe,’ he says, croons, and Will follows, led by the wrist and the voice.

Hannibal manoeuvres Will to the bed and presses down on his shoulders with both palms to get him to sit.

‘Sleep, Will,’ he whispers, gently tipping the man back to the pillows. Then he replaces the top cover on Will’s now shivering body, and moves the armchair forward. Hannibal sits back down, but holds Will’s wrist and falls asleep himself, the knowledge of a good night’s work sending him straight to a warm, comfortable sleep.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Hannibal wakes when Will does, feeling Will’s pulse flutter frantically beneath his fingers like a small, trapped bird. Will wakes slowly, panic in his eyes as he flounders around for his glasses. Hannibal wakes up more leisurely, stretching out his stiff neck and watching with no slight amusement as Will splutters at the sight of his newfound company.

‘You went for a little expedition in the night,’ Hannibal explains. ‘I had to stay with you in case you wandered back into the road.’

‘Makes a change from the roof,’ Will says, a bad parody of a joke said with a shaky voice as he readjusts his glasses.

‘You clearly have a lot of trouble sleeping,’ Hannibal comments as Will stands and pulls on a jumper.

‘Is that what your observations told you?’ he asks, slightly derisively, _as though I couldn’t have worked that out myself._

‘My observations are that you slept much better once you were not alone in the room, Will.’

‘I don’t need someone to hold my hand as I sleep, Dr Lecter. I don’t need a guardian angel to watch over me.’

‘Perhaps you don’t want one,’ Hannibal replies calmly, ‘but I think that you do need one, Will.’

‘What makes you so anxious to baby-sit me?’ Will’s embarrassment and panic has made him angry – he veritably spits at Hannibal from across the room, like an angry cat. And still he does not meet Hannibal’s eyes.

‘You are my patient, Will, and my friend. Why should I want to stand aside when I can help?’

‘I don’t want help,’ he says, but Hannibal is already standing and walking towards him. He slips his fingers around Will’s wrist again, in imitation of the previous night, and feels the racing pulse calm and slow though the thin, hot skin.

Hannibal smiles, and Will for once looks him straight in the eye.

‘Let me help you, Will,’ he says, and after a long, still moment, Will nods.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Over the following months, Will stays three or four nights a week in Hannibal’s guest bedroom, and Hannibal sits with him until the morning. It begins with his fingers looped loosely around Will’s wrist, and progresses to a gentle hold, to a firm grasp, to their fingers entwined and palms together.

Hannibal feeds him large, nourishing meals, and teaches him how to play chess, how to advance slowly but surely, deliberately, as inexorable as a glacier. He moves Will’s hand to move the pieces as he tutors, the contact at first making Will stiff and anxious but eventually, with time, Will thinks nothing of it. It is much the same with everything else.

He makes sure to take every opportunity to initiate physical contact with Will, whether it be just to move him to the side as he passes him in the kitchen, or whether he puts a large, warm hand on Will’s shoulder as he places a full plate before him. Will begins to stop twitching with every brush of skin, and soon enough, starved of any other human contact, he begins to lean in to Hannibal’s gentle, careful touches.

Hannibal grows bolder with each passing week, as Will grows less and less hostile and more receptive. The dark rings beneath Will’s eyes fade slightly, and his cheeks round with health. Hannibal lets the hand on Will’s shoulder slide down his arm before releasing completely; he guides Will to the guest bedroom with a hand resting on the small of his back. 

There is one, heart-stopping moment when Hannibal almost undoes all of his hard work, however – in the midst of a fierce game of chess, when Will’s glasses slide down towards the end of his nose, Hannibal reaches to push them back up. Will flinches away, and they end up in a strange sort of impasse, with Hannibal’s fingers hovering centimetres from Will’s face. 

After a few tense seconds, Will pushes his glasses up with shaking fingers and Hannibal contents himself with brushing a few strands of hair from Will’s eyes.

The game resumes.

Finally, when Will stops sleepwalking entirely when Hannibal is in the room and sometimes even manages a few hours of restful sleep, Hannibal begins the third stage of his plan.

He withdraws.

‘I believe you no longer need observation, Will,’ he says as he moves a bishop to back to save it from Will’s Queen. ‘One more night here, and you can return to your house for the foreseeable future.’

‘That’s… good,’ Will says, although he then moves a knight too fast, too soon and loses it one move later.

That night, Hannibal is sure that Will holds his hand tighter than ever before, and when they wake, Will’s nails leave small, red crescents on the back of Hannibal’s hand.

It takes only two weeks for Will’s dark rings to return, larger and heavier than before, and he confides reluctantly in Jack Crawford that he is sleeping badly again. He has been waking also in the woods near his house, shivering and damp.

Hannibal overhears this but does not mention it in their sessions. 

The overnight observations are not the only thing Hannibal stops; he also stops giving Will casual affection, and instead keeps his distance. At first, nothing happens, and Hannibal wonders for a little while whether he had acted too soon.

And then Will, lovely Will, begins to seek out Hannibal’s touch like one of his many dogs. When they stand beside each other Will leans in towards Hannibal’s body, resting almost inconspicuously against his side. During their dinners – which still happen, even though they are rarer – Will reaches for his plate before Hannibal can place it before him, purposefully taking it so their fingers brush. He says goodbye after a case with a hand pressed into the crook of Hannibal’s arm, as though trying to feel to the skin beneath the suit jacket.

Finally, as Hannibal flambés a prime cut of meat for his evening meal one night, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up in case of spillage, his doorbell rings insistently.

Hannibal knows it is Will before he opens the door, and as soon as he does Will reaches forward desperately and grasps Hannibal’s bare forearms. His fingertips are cold on Hannibal’s elbow.

‘I wasn't ready,’ he chokes, his eyes wild behind his glasses, for once meeting Hannibal’s eyes of his own accord.

‘You are not sleeping again?’ Hannibal asks, playing the ignorant.

‘You know I’m not. I know you can tell.’

‘Come in, Will, you’re shivering.’

‘It’s not cold out,’ Will says, but he is still shaking like a leaf, trembling beneath Hannibal’s hands. He lets himself be led inside and sat down, and Hannibal brings him a loose-leaf green tea and returns to his cooking. Will watches with the air of someone who has something left unsaid.

‘I’m afraid I have not prepared enough for two,’ Hannibal says as he switches the gas hob back on. It roars satisfyingly into life.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Will says vaguely, ‘I should have called ahead.’

‘I never want you to feel unwelcome in my home, Will,’ he says quickly, ‘I am glad you came to me.’

He finishes his own meal quickly and throws together a small amount of salad, pate and bread for Will to eat as he does. He also, when refilling Will’s tea, slips in the crushed remains of a small hypnotic sedative tablet, stirring it gently to make sure it dissolves completely. It is only a gentle sedative with a short half-life but it calms Will’s shaking, so that by the time both their plates are empty and Hannibal has cleared the table, Will is slouched comfortably in his chair, looking just as tired but slightly more at peace.

‘Perhaps you should sleep here tonight,’ Hannibal suggests when Will stands and sways like a tree in a hurricane.

‘Please…’ he mutters, reaching for Hannibal’s arm. Hannibal leads him upstairs gently, just as he did when Will was sleepwalking. Will leans into his touch, and stands adrift and helpless in the middle of the guest bedroom when Hannibal makes as if to leave.

‘You must sleep, Will,’ he chides gently, and Will nods in agreement but makes no effort to move.

Hannibal steps close again, and begins to help Will remove his heavy tweed jacket, hangs it carefully in the empty cupboard before undoing his shirt buttons, slowly, carefully, as Will stands ever so still and breaths heavily into the silence.

He pauses before sliding the shirt off of Will’s hunched shoulders, and steps away to fold it carefully. Will is left in his undershirt and his trousers, and he is scrunching his face together in an attempt to wake himself up from his stupor.

‘Relax, Will,’ Hannibal says, placing both hands on Will’s shoulders. They lie close enough to his neck to feel the blood pulse sluggishly through his veins, and Will shivers at the skin contact. Hannibal takes a deep breath in; Will smells of his awful aftershave and of nervous sweat, of the small sedative and of the cold, sharp outside air. Then Hannibal removes his hands and Will shivers again as the chill rushes in to replace them.

Hannibal undoes Will’s belt and slides it slowly from the loops of his trousers. The belt he attaches to the same coat hanger as Will’s jacket.

‘Take off your shoes and trousers, Will,’ he says over his shoulder as he shuts the window and locks it with a quiet click.

Will is sitting on the bed, in his usual sleeping attire and his socks, when Hannibal turns back. He smiles as Will struggles to hold in a yawn.

‘You’re safe, now,’ he says, advancing, kneeling in front of Will and removing his glasses. Will stares right into Hannibal’s eyes as he holds the temple covers between his fingertips and folds the arms together. ‘You can sleep, here.’

They stare at one another, and Hannibal is reminded of the similar impasse over a game of chess. This time, they are in a similar position to the pieces on the board.

Will leans forward – slowly, deliberately – and presses his cool, chapped lips to Hannibal’s. He doesn’t move, only touches, and breathes, and Hannibal moves his head slightly to slot their lips together for a moment before drawing back and helping Will into bed.

‘Good night, Will,’ he smiles, as he takes Will’s hand and laces their fingers together. Will falls asleep almost immediately.

It had been just like chess, really; Hannibal had drawn the king to him, then let him go, and the king had walked right back into his grasp. Will rushed in, and rushed out, but Hannibal advanced slow and smooth like a glacier and Will had been pulled into his slipstream.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

When Will wakes in the morning, well-rested and smiling, he doesn’t remember very much at all.

Hannibal reminds him with a kiss he’s sure neither of them will forget too soon, and Will lets him in that beautiful mind with open arms.


End file.
